


Not A Choice, But A Responsibility

by Wizard95



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, M/M, ON HIATUS I'M SORRY, Post-The Amazing Spiderman 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-07 15:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizard95/pseuds/Wizard95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ON HIATUS] Gwen is gone, Peter isn't. Harry is unstable, The Avengers care, and SHIELD knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi you~ this is the first work I post here, hope you like it! I'm another one of those geeky fans wishing Spidey is finally included in The Avengers! Please leave your opinions~ ^^

 

                                                  

 

Peter wants to feel okay. He wants his stomach to stop shrinking and his breath to stop coming out in little whines every time he closes his eyes at night and tries to sleep. Wants to stop feeling that weight on his shoulders every time he looks back into the past and can only recall tragedy. He wants someone to lift that weight off him. He wants to have Gwen back. He knows it’s impossible. He can’t ask for Uncle Ben to be back, let alone ask for his parents to have never left, but if he could _just_ have Gwen back, everything would be okay. He would be okay. He’d be able to sleep, he’d be able to live with himself.

But Gwen isn't coming back, there is no changing it, and he’s completely lost his path. No… the path is there, he just doesn't want to follow it anymore. Not without her.

“Hey mate” the voice snaps him back to reality, and he realizes he’s been away. Again. He looks to his sides to make sure his boss isn't anywhere near. The last thing he needs today is to be reprimanded. “Any time you feel like giving me that drink…” the man in black suit and dark glasses extends his hand, waiting for Peter to hand the cup.

“Right…” he moves to the side when Flash approaches to take the money from the costumer. “Have a nice day” he tries to smile, but fails.

Flash doesn't even bother to ask today. The usual ‘are you all right?’ doesn't come out of his mouth, and Peter is somehow grateful for it. He hasn't been all right in a long time. He certainly isn't now and he won’t be in the future either, so he’s grateful his friend has learnt that already because he can’t keep coping with his useless concern.

He’s being a total dick, he knows that. But Flash needs to understand that he will _never_ be the same Peter again. No more joking around and no more picking up on annoying customers, and no more anything of what he used to do.

No more Spiderman.

_Gwen_. Gwen was the force keeping him up. Not his parents, ‘cos they had never been there. Not Uncle Ben, because _he_ had been such a stupid and immature kid at the time and somebody had to pay for it. It was Gwen. Even though he had thought he could handle it, that he would be able to protect her, that _Spiderman_ would be able to protect her, neither of the two had been able to do it in the end. And it had been his fault. Again.

Not only had he lost the most important person in his life, but also his best friend. What were the benefits of having been bitten by that stupid spider after all? If when the time came, when the ones he loved needed protection, he couldn't provide it? What was the point of all of it? Spiderman had cost him his uncle and his girlfriend. He was not going to let him take Aunt May away too.

_No more Spiderman._

“Parker!” Peter jumps out of surprise and curses internally as he turns around and meets his boss’ eyes. Flash sends him a furtive look from beside. “You have a delivery to do.”

Peter hates delivering. Especially at night, because night is the time for robberies. Time of police sirens. Time to fight back the instincts. Leaving Spiderman behind is unfortunately easier said than done. Some nights are worse than others, of course. Some nights he stops at the traffic lights and witnesses a mugging, but he stays in place while at the same time a bus is unable to stop at a crosswalk in a nearby street and whilst some teenager runs away from a bunch of bullies on the opposite side.

Nothing feels more wrong than to pretend he’s unaware of it. But then he thinks of Ben, of Gwen and Harry and George. Who took care of them, while he was taking care of strangers? Who looks after those ones important to him while he’s too busy being a superhero to the city? Exactly, no one. He’s already learnt the lesson, he’s not tripping over the same rock again. _Not again_. He’s not dragging anyone into his web of catastrophe _ever_ again.

Except maybe… himself.


	2. One

Now, he wakes up hours before the set-up alarm goes off and turns off the clock on his left before it makes any sound whatsoever, knowing there’ll be no use for it since he won’t go back to sleep, because he simply cannot.

When he stretches –even though there’s no need for it–, his right hand gets caught up in something strong and familiarly silky. He lets out a sigh and snaps his hand out of the web. He must’ve shot it while dreaming. Again. It’s the second time this month.

He’s not totally sure why he keeps the web-shooters on anyway.

Lie. All right, he knows. He knows he feels more secure with them on. He knows that having them on somehow means that he’ll have to eventually use them.

Maybe that’s why. Maybe he _wants_ to have a use for them. Maybe he’s afraid. He’s afraid someone will eventually come for him.

He admits it. He’s never been one for keeping secrets, and just as Harry had put the pieces of the puzzle together, any other person committed enough could do it too.

Or maybe all of it is bullshit. Maybe he just doesn’t know how to let go. Although he knows he _should_. He’s not being Spiderman. He’s not out there saving nor giving people hope and encouragement as he used to do anymore. Those web-shooters stopped being useful long ago, as well as Spiderman died long ago.

Then why can’t he gather up the courage and just… let go?

He frankly doesn’t know, and he might not even want to know right now, so he just pulls the web off the opposite wall and throws it into the trash bin next to the door. The web-shooters are thrown into the wardrobe, close to the corner where he remembers seeing the suit a couple of months ago.

He can tell Aunt May is already up by the smell of bacon flooding the room, and he goes down the stairs after putting a pair of trousers on. He doesn’t even change his shirt nor comb his hair. Whatever, it’s Sunday.

“Morning” he approaches Aunt May from behind and plants a kiss on her head. She turns around and shows a smile, motioning for him to have a sit, which he does. The woman had stopped picking or commenting on the fact that he was getting up earlier than ever accustomed a while ago. It had gone back to normal after a few weeks of Uncle Ben’s, but now it seemed it wouldn’t go back to normal.

Peter’s internally relieved she has stopped showing the over-pitying and over-protective behaviour, but he can feel it emanating from her pores, so it isn’t that big of a difference anyway. She’s drawn out too, just not by Gwen’s lost, but by her nephew’s.

There’s nothing he can do this time. Really. There’s only a way out of his suffering, and it’s out of the question. He would never be so selfish. Would never go that far. Not as long as Aunt May is still around, at least.

Maybe it’s time to start pretending. It can’t be that hard when he spent the last year somehow avoiding Aunt May’s inquiries and getting away with the bruised hands and black eyes, can it?

_Show her that you’re okay, that she doesn’t need to worry. That you’re going through it all pretty… well._

He looks up to Aunt May still leaning over the frying pan and opens his mouth, but no sound comes out, because he spots something red and blue with the corner of his eye on his right. The newspaper.

                                              

**WHERE IS** **Spider** **man** ** _?_**  
**_What does it take to have him back? Let’s just hope not another giant lizard!_** _  
Does the disappearance of the hero have something to do with the infamous Avengers group now worldwide known for their spectacular performance in Manhattan some months ago, or is it just simple exhaustion? I mean, because having to look after New York citizens on a daily basis must be really tiring, right? We’ve got to admit though, that 5 months is quite a long holiday. Then, has Spidey decided to quit his unofficial job now we have Iron Man, Hulk and Captain America around to save the day? Because if you ask_ me _, if there’s someone we need to thank right now, that is our spider-web shooter. Keep that in mind New York, and one of these days, if we’re lucky enough, we might look up to the sky and catch a glimpse of red and blue clothes under the sun or spider webs hanging from the buildings._

Whatever possible hunger he might have felt minutes ago disappears completely upon finishing the reading. There’s a reason why he has kept himself away from any kind of social media till now.

“Hope he’s okay, that Spider guy” Aunt May takes a sit opposite him and Peter realizes he’s holding the newspaper with both hands. “I don’t know what’s happening to New York, honestly, a couple of years ago life was completely normal and now we have superheroes appearing on the news every day.” She takes a sip of her coffee and Peter takes a bite of the sandwich mostly because his aunt is staring at him, and when she isn’t looking he turns the page of the newspaper and places it on the far away corner of the table, not wanting to meet those spider-eyes again.

“Huh, I’m pretty sure he’s doing well” he clears his throat. “I-I mean, guess… super-people need days off too” he wears that silly smile for a couple of seconds before Aunt May freaks him out with a sudden ‘ _Oh!_ ’

She looks around, seemingly alarmed, while Peter follows her gaze and frowns confused.

“What? What is it?” he asks, impatient.

“How could I forget?!” she exclaims again, and stands up to walk to the living room and come back with a folded piece of paper in one hand that Peter recognizes is a letter addressed to… _him_? “It’s been in the mailbox since Wednesday, I just picked it last night and completely forgot to tell you about it, you arrived so tired…” she hands it over to Peter, who hesitates before taking it (and hopes Aunt May doesn’t notice this) when he spots Stark Industries’ logo printed on the upper right corner.

He chokes on the sandwich halfway swallowing it.

What does Stark Industries want with him?

A million questions are running through Peter’s head while Aunt May does a terrible job at pretending she isn’t totally thrilled by the possibility of her nephew receiving a job offer from the worldwide recognized company run by none other than the billionaire Tony Stark. They’ve had _the talk_ a minimum of ten times already. The talk about how Peter’s throwing away his potential by working as a simple pizza delivery boy.

Only after breaking into tears one night and stating that he frankly needed a break from all the scienc-y environment did Aunt May cease with the insistence as she hugged him tightly and asked Peter to forgive her blindness.

When the woman shifts impatiently on her seat, Peter’s brought back to reality and decides to end up the suffering for both of them by cutting the paper open.

‘ _You have been cordially invited to the fourteenth Stark Industries Technological Expo to be held this Sunday the 10 th at Stark Tower’s Exhibition Hall starting at 8pm. _

_We look forward to meeting you at the venue._

_Sincerely,_

_Pepper Potts.  
(Chief Executive Officer)’_

Peter holds his breath and re-reads the text once, twice and thrice, before opening his mouth and muttering:

“It’s an invitation…”

When he bites his lower lip and stares at the black letters, Aunt May snatches the paper out of his hand and reads it herself, again failing awfully at trying to hide her excitement.

“It’s tonight” she states, lifting her gaze to examine her nephew’s reaction.

But there is none.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter doesn’t know why his feet keep moving against his will, since he has started to regret his decision the moment he stepped out of the bus and spotted a massive group of people holding cameras and microphones right outside the Tower. However, he somehow makes it through and finds himself in front of two men in black suits who he doesn’t fail to notice, are equipped with earpieces and stun guns attached to their belts.

Peter is about to take the letter out of the inner pocket of the suit that Aunt May willingly ironed for him, when a woman on his left politely asks for his name.

And he hesitates. Is he on the list?

“Peter… Peter Parker” he speaks loudly so as to be heard over the unceasing cheering of the crowd behind him.

It’s not the moment to be questioning any of it again, but he does it anyway. He has never had any kind of relation to anybody who might now be working at Stark Industries, he _can’t_ understand how in hell that letter ended up on their mailbox, and he starts to hope for it to be a huge misunderstanding and for the woman to shake her head and tell him he cannot enter, when she smiles and gives a short nod, indicating he can continue.

He doesn’t move, feeling tempted to ask if she hasn’t mistaken him for a Peter Carter or a Peter Baker, but something in the amused smile she shows him makes him enter the lobby, leaving the annoyingly loud press behind.

While he makes his way to the Exhibition Room he reminds himself once again that he’s doing this for Aunt May. And… okay _fine_ , he can’t keep on living if he doesn’t find out why he’s been invited to an exhibition in _Stark_ tower by _Stark_ Industries’ CEO who is probably a person very close to _Tony Stark_ , the genius of the century.

And Iron Man.

And… _Iron Man_.

He stops dead on his tracks and analyses the perimeter. He spots at least twenty security guards on the entrances and exits and cameras every corner he looks at.

It’s normal, it’s understandable, he’s inside of what is possibly one of the most important buildings in New York, of course the security is _extreme_. Besides, if something were wrong, his Spidey-sense would’ve notified him.

_Hold yourself together. Nobody is going to attack you in such a packed place._

Maybe he’s paranoid. Actually, he’s _probably_ paranoid, but that doesn’t stop him from regretting not putting on the web-shooters earlier. His wrists feel lighter than usual…

The sudden outburst of cheering and clapping coming from the Exhibition Room makes him lose thread of thoughts, and he walks into the crowd seconds after, already expecting to see what he sees.

On the far-away stage, Tony Stark, on his expensive red suit, welcomes everybody to the exhibition. Peter’s way too far to be even noticed, but being in the same room as Iron Man gives him an odd feeling. He’s not sure if that’s good, or bad…

_It’s paranoia, that’s what it is._

“…and don’t forget to stay for the after party. There’ll be alcohol and some other additional surprises. But you guys know me already, I don’t need to tell you all this.”

Stark hasn’t even finished the speech when everybody bursts out cheering once again. Peter frowns and wonders what it would be like to have such a huge public image. He knows he would never be able to cope with it, which is half the reason why he keeps his secret identity, well… _secret_.

The crowd is starting to spread out and a huge screen hanging from the roof starts playing a video about high tech that Peter doesn’t pay attention to. Because a feeling of familiarity takes over him. He’s accustomed to this environment. It’s not the first time he finds himself surrounded by technological gadgets and virtual presentations talking about how technology has helped develop the world as we know it.

He starts feeling sick.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go guys, first chapter, hope you liked it! I apologize for any grammar mistakes you could've found~ and also thank you all for reading and leaving kudos! Means a lot, this being my first work here ^^ Please leave a comment! I'd love to know your opinion.


	3. Two

Tony Stark is nowhere to be seen. Peter’s been in the same corner for two hours now, fighting an internal battle with himself. Every time he so much as entertains the possibility of leaving the place, Aunt May appears in front of him and he can’t bring himself to move.

He doesn’t honestly know what he’s waiting for, because he’s definitely not having a good time there. Two years ago he’d have been totally fascinated by such artifacts in exhibition, but now, all he wants to do is leave those memories behind. He doesn’t _trust_ anymore. All the big companies, ruled by secrecy. He’s _been_ there before.

He decides to go for a walk when a security guard looks his way for the third time in a minute. Letting out a vague laugh, he puts his hands in the pockets of his trousers and makes his way to a group of people gathered in front of a blue-and-red coloured Iron Man suit inside a glass box.

He doesn’t count the minutes he spends there, just _staring_ , but it must have been quite a while because sooner than he would’ve thought, people are being asked to move on to the next room.

He mixes with the wealthy-looking people (although unlike him, they don’t only look wealthy, but probably are too, which makes him wonder again what the hell he is doing in a place like this one) and makes his way into what looks like a private lounge, not so illuminated and rather fancy-looking. And if he felt out of place five minutes ago, he’s now strongly fighting the impulse to run away and pretend tonight never happened. Especially when AC/DC starts deafening him.

Letting out a sigh, he starts looking for that annoyingly bright-red suit he saw the billionaire wearing earlier. It shouldn’t be hard to find, _if he was still wearing it_.

He knows he won’t last long. He’s never liked AC/DC. And he doesn’t _drink_. And he’s not really fond of making out in public either. In general, he’s hilariously and utterly out of place. This isn’t about a technological expo anymore, it’s turned into some kind of… ritzy cabaret.

He makes a promise to himself when a lady (thirty-something, Peter assumes) in an extremely short dark-blue dress and too-pink-for-comfort lips sends him a smile from the counter a couple of meters away from where he’s standing: if he doesn’t find Stark Industries’ CEO in ten minutes, he’s leaving the place.

One minute.

He walks away from the woman’s sight, his hands in his pockets in an awkward manner.

Three minutes.

He scans over the crowd around him twice, makes sure to hear every word of every conversation. He never catches any familiar name. He does catch, though, some really indecent acts taking place in the middle of the room and of which nobody seems to give a damn about.

Nobody except him.

Stark could be a mastermind, but everybody knows he’s an equally big playboy and cold-hearted person when it comes to relationships of any kind. It seems the people attending the event are cast in the same mould.

Five minutes have passed, and he can’t take it anymore. He’s got the feeling if he waits for another five, he might end up turning into a selfish and self-centred individual who’s got nothing better to do than attend a place to drink whiskey and see how many women he can get his hands on.

And despite the notorious tries of _women_ trying to get their hands _on him_ , he’s so far avoided any contact successfully.

Eight minutes.

Shoot to Thrill starts playing. People hold their glasses in the air and Peter tries to make his way through a group of overly-excited young ladies. This one is a fail.

“Dear lord, you are a sight for sore eyes… what’s your name?” asks one, clinging onto his shoulder.

He simply smiles and tries to shake her off politely. However, as drunk as she is, that is something that totally _cannot_ be done politely.

 _Damn my luck_.

The free hand he’s using –or trying to use– to _unglue_ the ginger from his body is suddenly also imprisoned by thin, gentle fingers interlacing with his.

Now there’s a blonde on his right. Bright blue eyes. Peter can clearly spot freckles on her cheeks and nose the moment he turns his head and _almost_ meets her lips.

“You single?” the blonde hisses in his ear, and Peter feels disgusted with himself. Her breath smells of alcohol and the fragrance of her sweet perfume is starting to turn his stomach. “Never mind, it doesn’t make a difference if you aren’t…” wet lips brush his cheek, and he finally decides to step away quite abruptly.

He feels like a dick when the ginger almost falls over tripping on her high-heels, but he doesn’t hesitate to leave the scene as he tries to ignore the “ _what an idiot_ ” and not snort at the “ _he’s still cute though_ ”.

Ten minutes.

He turns around, spots the exit and starts to make a beeline for it.

He’s halfway there, and stops dead on his tracks.

The tingling in his ears makes the music sound distant, his hair stands on end and everything around him becomes slow-motion scenes, because something much more relevant –familiar– and worth-his-attention is hovering in the outside of the building. He can see it through the big windows, above their heads, and he can do nothing to prevent the wall from breaking apart and the glasses from flying in every direction a second after, because no sooner has he extended both his arms to take that couple out of the way than he remembers his web-shooters being thrown carelessly into his wardrobe the night before. By his own arm.

He curses, and without further thinking, pushes the man out of the way and throws himself over the woman, shielding her from the pieces of shattered glass and the massive pieces of wall, knowing straight well he’s been through worse injuries before and unlike her, if hit by it, likely won’t die.

He hadn’t considered the pain.

In fact, he had almost forgotten what it felt like.

 

People are screaming, crying hysterically. Running like scared ants do when you step foot on an anthill. Peter’s struggling to breathe, his sight is nothing but white spots. Someone’s gasping beneath him, and he remembers he’s on top of a person.

He tries to shake the dizziness away, and spots a trickle of blood coming out of the woman’s nose, product of the inevitable collision of his head with hers, he assumes.

“You okay?” he breathes out, suffocated, and she nods immediately, Peter thinks not as shocked as she should be, and he wonders if she’s almost been squashed by a huge piece of concrete wall in other occasions.

The air’s filled with brick dust, and he has a hard time holding up the enormous piece of wall on his back, giving the blonde enough space to crawl her way out. When he manages to free himself from the weight, he’s grateful everybody is too busy panicking to have witnessed an 18-year-old boy holding a piece of broken wall that weighs who-the-fuck-knows-how-much.

But he doesn’t forget the cameras. Cameras _literally_ everywhere.

He’s got no time to be worrying about his secret identity remaining secret, though, because the tingling is again in his ears and when he turns around, a feeling of déjà vu makes his stomach shrink.

 _Harry_.

Harry is in front of him. Or rather, the Green Goblin is, and Peter cannot bring himself to think. To move. To even breathe. All he can think of is Gwen.

Gwen falling.

Gwen on his arms. Gwen _dead_.

A feeling of oppressive anger mixed with a dark necessity for revenge takes over him, and he doesn’t realize he’s taken a defensive position, ready to fight.

He’s giving himself away, deep inside, a voice is telling him to stop, because anybody who’s seen Spiderman in action would put two and two together just by looking at him right now, but he ignores it.

“Peter…?” the voice that makes its way to his ears is so soft and broken at the same time that Peter doesn’t think it’s coming out of the individual hovering in front of him.

He swallows.

 _Harry is dead!_ He remembers _._

_You were my friend, and you betrayed me!_

“You've got to help me, please…” the voice speaks again miserably; and Peter doesn’t know what to do. This is Harry. This is his friend.

_He killed Gwen!_

“Peter please…” he pleads, and Peter relaxes his muscles and steps closer despite his sense telling him that it is a very, very bad idea.

 _YOU killed Gwen_. He reminds himself, and takes another step.

“Harry?” he breathes out, and no sooner has he spoken the word than he chokes on his own saliva. Something’s squashing his throat.

Harry– The Green Goblin– whoever it is, he’s still in front of him. The shattered and melancholic look has been replaced by a killing glare and a maniac laughter that Peter remembers perfectly.

He tries to move away, fight in some way, but there’s nothing to step his feet on.

He’s in the air.

His back still aches from the incident with the wall a moment ago and he feels completely clueless and helpless without his web-shooters.

Five months, five months he had gone without any kind of incident, and this happens the day he decides to take the damn web-shooters off. Damn his luck. _Damn. His. Fucking. Luck._

He can feel his face going red hot. He’s starting to lose vision and he stops trying to fight back when his body starts going limp. There’s a sudden _thud_ , and Peter feels the air brushing his cheeks before falling on something hard but softer than the floor itself, and he internally thanks whatever it is because he wouldn’t have endured a second collision with another bone-breaking surface.

The tingling’s still in his ears. People are still screaming in the distance, and police and ambulance sirens can be heard too over the sound of some mechanical artifact flying nearby.

_Harry..._

He tries to call him but ends up coughing painfully and gasping for air. Harry’s either leaving or about to attack him, and neither of the two can Peter let happen again, so he obliges himself to stand up despite his body telling him that if he does, he’s likely to give back today’s Aunt May’s spaghetti.

However, he finds out he cannot move whatsoever.

“Stay still, son.” A manly voice speaks closer than Peter would’ve liked. “You might have a concussion”

Someone’s holding him, he realizes, and darts his eyes open instantly.

He’s still having difficulty to breathe, but the gasp he –unconsciously– lets out has nothing to do with the lack of air in his lungs.

It has more to do with Steven _freaking_ Rogers looking down to him. And Steven _freaking_ Rogers holding him still because ‘he might have a concussion’. And Peter knows that if Captain America’s been there all along… _oh boy_. He never should’ve come to this place.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of action in this one! Hope you liked it and thank you all so so much for leaving kudos! *hugs*  
> (I apologize for any grammar mistakes!)


	4. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little bit shorter than the other chapters but given the fact that I haven't updated for like a decade I figured it was better than nothing~ ^^ Thanks for all your kudos and comments!

Ignoring the pain on his chest and the spinning sensation in his head, he manages to speak out an ‘I’m fine’ and tries to crawl away from Steve Rogers, but then he thinks that doing that after assuring the hero that he’s ‘fine’ isn’t a very coherent idea, so he stands up and tries not to lose balance.

“Help is coming, you really shouldn’t be moving” Rogers speaks, Peter can feel the confusion in his voice. And he thinks that’s a good sign. The confusion in the blonde’s voice means he’s wondering why a _normal_ teenager has even the capacity to talk and stand up on his own after being lifted in the air and almost strangled. That’s… good.

When his surroundings stop spinning around, Peter opens his eyes and meets a pair of blue orbs examining him from head to toe.

He’s not sure what to do.

So he goes for the most normal option.

Steve thinks he’s a normal teenager.

“You’re Captain America…” he points out, widening his eyes and trying to sound amazed. “I… I’m a fan” he continues, –feeling like an idiot, really– but bites his inner lip when all Steve Rogers does is frown and tilt his head to his right, as if he’s in deep thought.

_Of course he’s in deep thought._

Jesus, he just fell from like twenty meters and he’s on his feet telling him he’s a fan.

He lets out a sigh, turns around, and pretends to be impressed by the view. The place is a mess. Scattered glass everywhere and brick dust covering broken tables. On the nearest counter a piece of wall rests next to a huge pool of probably Johnny Walker or another equally expensive drink. Peter can smell the alcohol and it only makes him dizzier. He grimaces.

It doesn’t matter if Captain America doesn’t solve the puzzle. He is sure somebody will eventually check out the CCTV and won’t ignore the fact that he walked unhurt –well, when he says unhurt…– from under a huge piece of concrete wall.

He sighs again, and lifts both his hands to his head that’s begun to pound painfully.

“What did you say your name was?” Steve asks, and Peter tries not to panic.

_It’s ok, he just wants to know your name._

_The man is concerned._

_That’s how Steve Rogers is, everybody knows it._

“I didn’t” he answers, and regrets it a second later. He’s just being more suspicious by not giving him his name, besides, it’s not like they can’t just look him up on the guest list and–

“ _Oh my_ …” Rogers murmurs behind him, and Peter doesn’t like at all the way he says it. He also doesn’t like at all how Steve Rogers positions himself in front of him and stares at his face with a pitiful look. And he definitely doesn’t like _at all_ the question that comes next: “How… old are you?”

Peter can’t bring himself to move.

 _Fuck_.

And he’s stopped breathing too.

 _Leave_.

 _Leave NOW_.

What if they’ve known it all along? What if that’s the reason why he was invited? What if it was planned? What if Harry being there wasn’t an accident? What if Harry had spit it all out? How many people know he’s Spiderman?

“I gotta…” he mumbles. “I… actually I gotta go…” he takes a step back, Steve Rogers is still looking at him the same way and Peter knows it won’t change a thing if he leaves or if he stays.

Because the guest list. And the CCTV. And the woman he saved. And the invitation was sent to his mailbox, which means they know his addre– _Aunt May._

_Aunt May!_

And even though he’s conscious it isn’t the brightest idea he’s had, he simply turns around and as fast as his legs allow him, runs to the exit. He pushes through the crowd gaining more than one accusatory glare, and runs, runs, runs without looking back until the commotion cannot be heard anymore.

He takes as many shortcuts as he can and he curses uncountable times at his stupid decision of leaving the damn web-shooters at home. Fuck it, they might not even be where he left them anymore, _fuck it_ what if they take his suit too, what if they hurt Aunt May. They can’t hurt her, she has nothing to do with his selfish decision of becoming a useless hero to the city, they can’t hurt her.

She’s the only thing he has left.

If they fucking lay a finger on her he’s going to fucking _kill them_.

Back aching, running at the speed of light, he bursts through the door noisily and stumbles into the living room ungracefully, almost smashing his head against the wall. Lights are on, the TV is on the news channel (Peter ignores the fact that Tony Stark’s face is in it), and it smells of lemon pie but more importantly: Aunt May is nowhere to be seen.

“Aunt May?” he calls for her, but his voice doesn’t come out. He’s breathless and he knows he won’t be able to talk normally for another couple of minutes so he stands still and tries to calm down.

His heart is pounding fiercely, he’s starting to get dizzy, but he doesn’t sense anything out of the ordinary.

Glancing at the kitchen to make sure nobody’s there, he climbs up the stairs and makes a beeline for his aunt’s bedroom.

Empty.

 _His_ bedroom.

Empty.

There’s no one in the bathroom either and by the time he finishes checking every corner of the house and accepts the fact that he’s alone, he feels like puking. He just stands in the middle of the doorway, frozen, at a loss for words, dozens of possible scenarios going on in his mind nonstop.

Aunt May being sedated and carelessly thrown into the back part of a black van, Aunt May being hit in the head and gushing-red liquid dripping from her forehead, Aunt May being pointed a gun at, Aunt May trembling with fear, tears running down her cheeks.

Aunt May calling his name. Or maybe even Uncle Ben’s.

There’s an annoying buzz in his ears that he can’t shake off. Then a sudden heat makes its way from his hands to his cheeks and neck.

“ _Peter_ ”

And a familiar scent makes its way to his nostrils.

“ _Peter!_ ”

And a pair of eyes he knows too well appear in his vision field.

“Au-…nt my-“ he struggles to speak, something’s pressing hard against his chest, he can barely breathe. But Aunt May is there, it’s okay, Aunt May is in front of him, she’s not hurt, she’s there.

“ _Breathe. Breathe, my boy…_ ”

Peter understands the heat on his cheeks and neck are his aunt’s hands, and he places his own hands on top of hers just to make sure she’s really there and that he’s not delusional.

It’s her. She’s there and she’s not bleeding, or crying, but she _is_ trembling.

“ _In and out, that’s it…_ ”

No, she isn’t trembling. _He is_.

“That’s all right… it’s all fine now” she takes a deep breath and Peter imitates her. Why is she suddenly taller than him?

“Are you hurt?” she asks as he evens out his breathing, his heart slowly coming down to a normal speed. Peter would’ve let out a chuckle were he not having a panic attack. If he was hurt? _He_? “My god, look at your hands…”

As Aunt May takes a closer look at his bruised hands he double-checks every inch of her face for any scratches or cuts, anything that could give away she’d been attacked. He lets out a relieved sigh when he doesn’t find any.

He’s a little taken aback by the sudden tight hug his aunt gives him. It _does_ take him about ten seconds to realize she’s only holding him because he’s convulsing. He buries his face on her shoulder and cries.

His hands around her waist, he presses his body tight against hers.

“My boy…” she lets out a cry as well. “Shhh… It’s all right, it’s all right…”

It reminds Peter of when he was just a kid. Just a normal kid who’d fall from the stairs or suffer a minor accident while playing Chase with Uncle Ben and be comforted with a hug, when Aunt would rub circles on his back just like now. Back when he was free from any responsibility, when he didn’t have to worry about the scary world out there, when his main concerns where the daily bath he hated so much, and the monster hiding under his bed at night.

Back then when he wasn’t Spiderman and back then when the weight of his uncle’s dead wasn’t on his shoulders. When he didn’t have to carry on without his beloved Gwen.

Everything was so much brighter back then… But now he’s lost _so many_ it seems as if it’s getting darker and darker with every day that goes by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, grammar mistakes are on me~ >.


End file.
